


Mini-me

by orphan_account



Category: Diablo (Video Game), Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, uhhhh i have no explanation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-08-29 15:30:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8495542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tiny angel of Death! Mal thinks he's cute and drags him off. Most of the council approves.





	1. Chapter 1

He dropped from his perch, emptying both shotguns into the flabby backside of the too-large junker. The soul was swept up without a second thought, and he quickly sidestepped a bullet meant for his skull. He growled and shadow-stepped up and behind, stepping off again to act out a Death Blossom. One, two, three, four dropped. Nearly a team wipe. He grinned and hunted down the last one, removing them from the equation with ease while his ragtag team clumped up on the payload. A questioning look was shot his way, and he dropped the empty weapons without a care.

“No one-”

“Can stop  _ Death _ .” They all went wide-eyed, and he shook his head.

“...That wasn't me.” It was far too ethereal to be his voice, and had sounded as if it were coming from behind him. He started walking, feeling something hang over his shoulder. He looked back and saw nothing, only to hear a faint shuffling around the corner. “Keep on the payload. I heard something on our backs, I'm going to investigate.” The group nodded and he walked off, careful to keep himself ready for anything that could threaten the team or payload. He was pulled by the shoulder into a dark side-room, pinned back to the wall violently. The force knocked the wind from him, as well as the shotguns out of his hands. “What the hell?” He hated the wheezing way the question came out, and his eyes bulged at the hooked blade slammed bare centimeters from his hood.

“Do not say  _ that word, _ ” his captor hissed. That voice was the same that had finished his sentence earlier, haunting and impossibly deep, echoing itself over faintly. He flinched at the anger in it, but the fear from the weapon and whoever this was didn't kill the heat between his legs at that voice.

“Hot damn… you have a nice voice.” He mumbled out, keeping his eyes on the blade uncomfortably close to his face. His captor leaned in and he squinted at the familiar hood. “Hey, wait a second. You ripped me off.”

“I think it is the other way around,” they hissed, a gloved hand playing at the edge of his mask. He growled, tempted to bite them.

“Oh yeah, hot shot? And who might you be?”

“Malthael.”

“Well it's nice to meet you, moth-ball.”

“That isn't my name.”

“It isn't? Damn, I hadn't noticed.” Maybe sarcasm wasn't this guy’s strong suit or something.

“You are a disrespectful little human, I'll give you that.”

Reaper growls, finally peeling his eyes away from the ornate sickle, staring at that blackness as his mask fades, the lattice vanishing off his face. He’s in his lax state, four inhuman eyes and a somewhat simplified mouth.

“Fine. My name is Reaper.”

“That is not your real name.”

“Nope. But it's what people call me. Most are too afraid to try anything else. After all, you cannot bargain with Death.” A snort.

“You are mistaken, friend.”

“Mistaken?” That gets the ghost’s attention, that and Malthael just called him  _ friend. _

“Yes. One can bargain with Death. If you’re an archangel and I’m in a good mood, that is.”

“What?” He squinted, eying the ornate hood and the way it shifts around that invisible face.

“Did I stutter?” The much larger being leans in, and Reaper feels disconcerted again.

“No.” His answer is sharp and without emotion. “But there’s something bothering me. You're insinuating that I've been wrong all these years.”

“Oh, you have been.  A  _ friend _ of mine directed me to you and how you play up to me. We even share similar doubled weapons. Hm-hmm, such a dilemma. For you, at least.” The creature seems endlessly amused as he drops the wraith, shuffling back and retrieving his sickle. It hits the smaller like a ton of bricks to the face.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles, “you're the literal angel of death.”

“Archangel,” Malthael corrects, tucking his weapons away.

“Still. Fuck. I can't believe--damn.”

“Language,” the larger scolds, folding his arms and looking Reaper over more properly.

“What, you don't curse in Heaven?”

“Oh, we do. But on different terms. Not to mention, your swears are… unsavory.” That brings a grin to the specter’s face.

“You don't like it when I curse. You think it’s dumb.”

“No!” For someone so large and genuinely intimidating, it’s hysterical to hear Malthael sound so  _ offended. _

“Mhm. Anyway--did you just come here to tell me I stole your idea, or is there an actual reason you dragged me away from my team?”

“I had someone pause the events here. Your team will never notice you gone. Now come here.” The archangel grabs him with a clawed gauntlet not unlike his own, yanking him into what seems like an awkward hug. They’re suddenly in a rather bright place, however, and he has to raise a hand to shield his eyes from the bare sunlight.

“So, wait. This is heaven right? Or some part of it?”

“Yes. And I know what you’re thinking--no, you don't get to lie down just yet. If you’re going to pretend to be me, at least act like you accept your immortality.” He sounded  _ scolding,  _ and Reaper huffed in annoyance.

“Fine, fine. You’re going to have to help me with a few things, though.”

“Ah, don't you worry your little head. Since I found you, I've decided to take you under my wing.” One of the jagged purplish things bent down, what would be the wrist joint bopping him lightly on the head. “Literally.” The specter groaned at the bad pun, drawing eerie little snickers out of Malthael. “Oh, don't be like that, that was a good joke!”

“It was awful.”

“Tch. Mortal humor is in worse condition than I thought. Almost as bad as Imperius’s sense of humor.”

“Imperius?”

“Oh, you don't want to meet him. He’s positively livid today.”

“...I see. Now what’s this about mentoring me?”

“Ah. That. Well, it's a bit of a tale, but the long and short of it is, I rather like you. I want you as a companion--you’re pretty close to looking like me, and you already have the right attitude. More or less.”

“Gotcha.” A nod, and he’s tugged along to a building with arched doorways.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reap and mal smooch, imperius is mad. i dont thing there's anything noteworthy to point out in this one.

“Now, I have to keep you like you are for all this to work-- _ I _ can't promote you any further than you are now anyway. You’ve done well in getting yourself close to angelic status.” A brooding silence fell over the ghost for a long moment.

“I didn't do it myself.” Malthael caught the hidden meaning and said no more, the air between them quieting as the Archangel opened the door, leading Reaper down the hall and into a large chamber. Small angels, hardly up to the ghost’s waist scurried around, paying the pair no mind. There was shouting not far from them, and the specter felt his hands jerk and clench at his sides. It sounded like his and Jack’s petty arguments. In a selfish act of self-consciousness, his mask reappeared, Malthael choosing not to comment. They stepped closer, through another small doorway, into a room with a ceiling that looked to stretch on forever. So much light poured in, and massive arched windows framed in gold surrounded the area--all besides the entryway. Two creatures stood in the middle, in each other’s faces and  _ bellowing. _ One was larger and had to bend comically, the other standing up as tall as his body could manage.

“That’s Imperius with the full armor and orange wings, and Tyrael has the white robes and blue wings.” Wisdom whispers, bending slightly to let him hear it over the shouting match. He wants to say that Imperius looks rather like Reinhardt, but the thought that  _ he likely doesn't know who that is _ brings him to hold his tongue. The giant pauses, and rounds on Malthael, wings hung high over his head and half-spread.

“Malthael! What are you doing with a  _ mortal _ in our court?!” A clawed hand is held up, a sense of almost-amusement radiating from the angel of death. It only seems to further the irritation, but the other angel shoves in front of the knightly creature, bending to Reaper’s level with a laugh.

“Only you can bring a human here without getting caught, Mal.”

“Two things. Don't call me that, and it's not hard. No one looks Death in the eye. Most don't even look at me in general.” Tyrael shrugs and offers a hand to the wraith, seeming pleased.

“Well it's a pleasure to meet you.” He gently shakes it, careful of his claws as he nods.

“The same for you.” Imperius almost howls behind him.

“Don't make  _ friends  _ with the little monster!”

“Little monster?!” Reaper hisses, glaring over Tyrael’s shoulder accusingly. Imperius shoves Justice aside so violently the other tumbles a bit, indignant yelling coming from the toppled archangel. The giant then jabs a huge finger in Reaper’s chest, voice barely louder than a threatening growl.

“Yes,  _ little monster.  _ You are hardly better than your hellspawn ancestors, no matter  _ how _ much you take after one of us.” The ghost goes quieter than a grave, eyes flicking between Imperius and Malthael, who is saying nothing.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he says coolly, then tips his head toward the angel of death standing there mutely. “I suggest we leave before this… buffoon kills off your little pet project.” He sees the way Imperius’s wings hike up at the word, a shout clearly about to leave him. Malthael has other ideas however, and grab’s Reaper’s shoulder.

“Shame. I thought they’d appreciate how a little thing like you got so close in looks and abilities to me.” He shrugs and brings the ghost close, getting them out quickly and taking them into a dark study. Candles alight as they pass, casting golden glow around the dim room. There isn't a single window, but that doesn't seem to bother the archangel in the least.

“Where is this?” The wraith wonders aloud, looking at a huge, dusty book as they pass it. It has glittering letters that don't look like anything from Earth at all.

“My study. I have a rather large one, and it’s a good spot to teleport to. I’m not as exact with that as some of the others--comes with age, I suppose.”

“Age? I thought you were all immortal.”

“Oh, we are. But we still feel the passage of time.” He stops and turns, walking into a bedroom with  _ more _ books, a spacious desk, and a bed tucked into the corner.

“You some kind of librarian, on top of taking souls?”

“No, but my first job title was and still is Archangel of Wisdom.” He looks something over, then sighs, turning to Reaper. He looks so out of place, it's actually cute. He tilts his head, striding closer and touching that face again, cupping in both hands and tipping it up. “You still have your mask on.”

“Yeah, and?” He sounds petulant.

“We aren't in the presence of anyone else. The other angels of wisdom know not to come this deep into my home. You are free to take it off--why haven't you?” He says nothing, and Malthael watches him a long moment.

“I don't know,” he finally admits, and the mask is gone. He frowns at cold hands and fingers exploring his face, reaching to grab one of the wrists. His talons click against the slender gauntlet, and there’s a low chuckle.

“You sure are irritable. I don't think I've ever been this annoyed at anyone--unless you count the days where Diablo throws us off-balance.” Just saying it brings an annoyed tone, and he absently runs a thumb over those slick black lips. He smirked under his hood when he doesn't get bitten, and does it again. “I think someone is enjoying this,” he says in a sing-song way, seeming amused at the throaty growl that earns him.

“Don't,” the specter warns, only to get rubbed at the corners of his right pair of eyes, an involuntary purr coming up. It twists into a growl last second, but it’s too late.

“You  _ are _ enjoying this.” The archangel leans down, and Reaper is struck with the sudden thought of  _ shit, what’s he doing? Did I fail some test? _ He braced himself for his body to be shredded effortlessly, squishing his face up in preparation for pain. None comes though, and a feeling like ice tingles over his lips. He flinches away from the cold, and there’s a disappointed sigh. He manages to crack an eye, and stares at how  _ close _ that hood is.

“Wh-”

“Don't worry about it.” It moves back, the archangel straightening. He turns, seeming on-edge about something. Reaper is speechless. 

_ Did he just try to kiss me? _

“I'm… sorry?” It's worth a try.

“I said don't worry about it. You aren't very good at listening to instructions, are you?” The specter flinches at the vaguely threatening snap, and shuffles back toward the entryway as subtly as he can.

_ If I wasn't dead meat before, well,  _ fuck, _ I am now. _ He squints at the way Malthael doesn't move, leaning over his desk and looking at something. He glances to the carved-open rock of the entrance--this whole place is underground.  _ Is it worth a shot? _ He wonders to himself if the archangel would be able to see him ghost away in this darkness. There’s a long-suffering sigh, and that hood tips his way.

“Well? Go ahead. I'm not stopping you.” Death waved dismissively, and suddenly the urge to run drops away. He sounds  _ depressed. _ “Are you running or not?” Now he sounds impatient, and the tap-tap-tap of his claws on the desk fill the room.

“I don't know,” Reaper mumbles, pulling his hood down over his face more and looking down. Where’s this sudden feeling of conflict coming from? He feels sick because of it. Malthael turns to him and he quails under the scrutinization. He wants to run, sort of, but if someone took the time to go and retrieve him, then offer to mentor him, running seems like throwing that effort away. “I'm sorry,” he says again, and flinches, allowing those asymmetric hands to shove him against the wall.

“What are you apologizing for,” he demands, and the ghost curls in on the hands, almost shaking himself to fog.

“I d-didn't mean to fuck up--I mean-”

“No, no. Stop.  _ Why are you apologizing? _ ”

“You tried to kiss me and I didn't reciprocate. I moved away.” He chokes it out, fear making his throat uncomfortable and tight. He doesn't know, so he just assumes that the  _ actual _ angel of death can kill him and force him to stay dead. It makes him feel a surprising amount of terror and he squirms a little, keeping his face hidden. He isn't let go, and he wonders if he’s going to take his last breaths here, in this little bedroom.

“...I had just wanted to know your reaction. I hadn't intended to scare you.” He hits the ground, and stays put. Best to not move. It's the strangest feeling, heart thrumming in his chest with fear. 

_ I think this is the longest my heart’s kept working since I died. _ Malthael says nothing, and there’s a rustling of fabric and something else. He finally risks a peek out, only to find the archangel curled in his bed. So now he’s laying on the ground while the elder tries to sleep. He shuffles into a sitting position, looking back to the wall he was shoved against. It’s a narrow nook between two shelves, and he wiggles back into it, leaning against the rock and resting his head against the shelf, knees pulled to his chest. May as well sleep, since he can't get home by himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aha long time no upd8  
> gay shit: incoming. you've been warned.

Reaper is tucked into the crook between two bookshelves, curled into a ball with his head lolled back against the shelf to his left. It looks incredibly uncomfortable, and Malthael tuts at the sight, quickly extricating the ghost. He stirs but stays asleep, limp in those slender arms. The archangel sets him into the bed in the corner, tucking the specter in and ensuring he’d be a bit more comfortable. He doesn't have much to do today unless one of the lords of the burning hells kicks down heaven’s front door, so he has time to care for his new “student”. He sits at the desk in his room, starting to write out what he knows about Reaper thus far. The paper is shamefully empty by the time he’s done, and he scowls at his own flowing handwriting.

“I can't believe this…” he mutters, looking back at the wraith sleeping in his bed. The specter almost looks like a proper angel, black face seeming to have vanished into his hood with his eyes closed. It’s a sight for sore eyes, frankly, and thankfully he doesn't wake up at touches over his face. “So warm… even for a corpse.” The elder murmurs, lost in thought as he seats himself, exploring the inhuman face. He slowly, haltingly leans down, growing close. At no signs of discomfort, he continues, brushing their lips together again. Reaper sighs and reaches to him, looping a hand around the back of his neck.

“Malthael,” the ghost slurs, “you didn't have to try and kiss me while I sleep. I would've accepted it while awake.” They kiss again, properly this time, and it’s the most lovely feeling. Reaper tastes familiar, almost a flavor he can’t quite put his finger on. The wraith purrs and pulls away for a brief moment, eyes opening into slits.

“You taste like that stuff I used to smoke before I came to terms with myself.”

“I do?”

“You do… fuck.” The curse is breathy and they kiss again, the specter gripping his head and kissing him deeply. It’s hungry and needy, like he wants to taste the archangel forever. It sends a little thrill over the elder, and things get sloppy quick. Malthael shifts, moving to a more comfortable position and gasping in surprise when he’s bitten, a self-satisfied hum bubbling from the creature under him.

“You've done this before,” the embodiment of wisdom observes, settling onto his elbows to be as close as possible.

“Mhm, lots. You’re pretty good too.” Claws toy with the edge of his hood, and he smirks invisibly.

“Why thank you. I've only watched.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I also know how most react to this. I find it beautiful, if messy. Tyrael doesn't.” He sounds amused and Reaper gives a snort before they kiss again, greedy and open-mouthed. The ghost decides not to ask how he kisses and talks with no visible face, instead sucking Malthael’s tongue right out of his mouth and hoarding it in his own.

“Ah, you’ve tholen my thongue,” the archangel notes, pulling back a bit. The wraith seems to enjoy his long, slippery tongue, nipping at it gently. It’s oily black where it vanishes into the shadow of his hood, but fades into the most unusual shade of lavender at the tip. He lets go and it hangs there a moment before pulling back in, vanishing. “Mhm, very greedy.”

“I am.” He smirks and shifts his arms to lay over the shoulders over them, fingertips playing near the armored bases of those vibrant wings. They lay tangled like that for so long, and it feels lovely for both of them.

“How are you feeling?” The archangel wonders aloud, hands propping Reaper’s head up.

“Well. I'm glad I didn't run off, if that’s what you're wondering.”

“Good to hear.” He leans down slightly, resting their heads together. The ghost sighs and kisses him again and again, light and fluttering touches against his face.

“I could spend all day like this.”

“Then let’s. Neither of us have anything to do.”

\------

“First he brings the little monster  _ here _ , then they fall for each other. I can't believe this! Has wisdom left Malthael?!” A huge fist slams into the armrest, and only Auriel flinches from the massive sound. Itherael looks sidelong to the Archangel of Valor, and waves a couple of fingers idly, their scroll moving for them. They’re watching the scandalous scenes unfold via text. It’s amusing to see Imperius so worked up over it--the thought is interrupted by the text changing again.

“Oh my…” they mumbled, grabbing the scroll out of the air. Best if nobody else saw  _ this. _ Auriel tries to lean over, only to get a faceful of wing tendrils.

“Hey!”

“Shhh. Let me read.” They go back to reading, glad that nobody can see their face, and the intense blush that arises.

_ Reaper grinds backward into Malthael’s slim hips, groaning and arching his back. The archangel purrs his approval and smooths a hand down his “student’s” front, dragging him close. _

_ “You’re doing so well. Taking every inch like it was made for you.” _

At this, Itherael quickly closes the scroll, stuffing it haphazardly into its container. Auriel looks to them as they rub their eyes, tilting her head.

“Everything alright?”

“I think we need to make sure nobody bothers Malthael and his  _ mini me, _ ” the archangel of fate wheezes, holding their head in one hand.

“For how long?” She leans closer and takes their other hand, rubbing it gently. She chooses not to comment on the inherently human phrase they just used.

“A while. I doubt any of us wants to walk in on… that.” Imperius leans over, looking ready to gossip.

“What’d you read?”

“Well… I’d tell you but you won't be happy with me or them.” The giant leans back, tapping his armored fingers on the armrest.

“I don't like this. Keep it to yourself,” he finally says, shaking his head. “I suppose he holds seniority. I'll let him be with his pet project--just so long as it stays out of my way.”

“I don't think that’ll be a problem, sir.”


End file.
